


tiptoe through the true bits

by heavenbreak



Series: we spent the day submerged [1]
Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: 3 Things, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Prompt Fill, Trans Character, it's implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 07:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17300735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenbreak/pseuds/heavenbreak
Summary: “There’s a common ground to it, then?” Hanschen shakes his head.“Perhaps we skim off the cream.”“Skim off the cream?”“Don’t you believe one can learn how?”--- --- ---we might make it to the other sidethree things: three times hands were to be appreciated





	tiptoe through the true bits

**Author's Note:**

> CW / this fic contains the following themes:  
> Period-Typical Attitudes (Homophobia/Transphobia)  
> Unhealthy (Past) Relationship  
> Religious Themes  
> Lots of Innuendos 8^)  
> \--- --- ---  
> this fic is a companion to [two slow dancers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232506)

i.

“This is where I study nature. And the sky, too. It’s a beautiful view up here.”

“I can see that.” Hanschen’s eyes are fixated only on Ernst, the vines and foliage behind him framing his body as if he was a diorama. Not a single image on canvas could ever properly represent what Hanschen feels looking at Ernst. There is tenderness, mettle, reverence, but drowning everything out is the feeling of fear. ‘ _Let us not be sad,_ ’ he reminds himself. ‘ _When all comes to pass, you’ll curb the loss and quell your troubles just as easily._ ’ He must. It’s unpleasant mix, otherwise.

It isn’t in his best interest to encompass… _love_ , in this equation. If anything, he feels he must be just pursuing a simple fascination. He has loved before—or at least he thinks he has—and all instances were put to an ugly stop, more or less. Recognizing fear as the main aspect of his emotions directed to his friend should’ve been a curt warning. And yet here he is, conjugating Greek with Ernst atop a patch of grass like romantic caricatures of young lovers in Shakespeare’s play. He must put a stop to this, before any semblance of a Shakespearean tragedy strikes them both.

“You seem uneasy,” Ernst observes. _I feel more frantic than uneasy_ , Hanschen’s meddlesome mind supplies, as the other places a gentle concerned hand on his sleeve, “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s not unease, dear Ernst.” He lies. “It is excitement.”

“Excitement? O-oh,” Ernst seems to believe that, laughing, “I thought this would bore you to death.”

“You verily escorted me out to here with the intention to kill me?” Hanschen feigns taking offense from Ernst’s remarks, and then is rewarded with more of his unique laugh. Ernst has been quite bashful about laughing, but once Hanschen coaxed him to never cover his face when he’s about to, it turned into something far more beautiful. He’s been trying to find more subtle ways to make Ernst laugh, since.

“Surely you don’t think that.”

“That is, indeed, what a vicious killer would insinuate.”

“However you’d like it, Hansi.” Ernst croons. To be honest, Hanschen has no desire to have another nickname. His real name is Hans, and Hanschen is only a derivative (most people don’t seem to know this, though Hanschen has never been bothered to correct them), but the way Ernst’s lips curve and his voice lilts happily has him resigned to just let Ernst pick a whole new name for him altogether.

The fear dampens, somehow, like the bells in the distance indicating the start of Angelus, but became louder against the harsh sound of water rushing in the creek. Hanschen holds onto the feeling, not knowing whether to use it as a shield to protect himself from the world, as fears are biologically meant to function, or to destroy it, and finally overcome his anxiety. He takes a glance at Ernst, who begins praying with closed eyes, reciting, “ _Ave Maria, gratia Plena, Dominus tecum._ "Hanschen sighs. Ernst always had trouble in Latin, but he could recite any prayer in the language. He caught Ernst praying the Lord’s Prayer in Latin before an important recitation, but he couldn’t for the life of him memorize a single line of Aeneid. But there is no room for complaint, in Hanschen’s case, as most of the reasons why they spend time together involve helping Ernst in Latin.

“Our work was sufficient this past week, don’t you think so?” Hanschen tells Ernst, who is in the midst of pulling out his textbooks from his satchel. "Put those away."

“Really?”

“Yes, I want to see you paint.” He requests, much to Ernst’s surprise. “I did tell you to bring your paints, didn’t I?”

“You surprise me more day by day, Hanschen Rilow.” _It’s Hans Rilow_ , the voice in his mind replies, but not so uncouth, as he smiles watching Ernst get to work.

Hanschen has already inaugurated in his mind that he sorely eludes the burning grasps of love and domesticity, but why does he allow himself the simple pleasure of watching Ernst illustrate the scene in which they sit in—why does he allow himself a witness to Ernst’s delight in his leisure? Why, to go even further, does he allow himself a silent question why Ernst has lured him out here; and is it an effort towards a covert seduction? Has Ernst finally returned his sentiments? _Which_ sentiments—Hanschen starts, until he notices Ernst staring his way, and Hanschen’s certain his head visibly snapped away.

“What is it?” He asks Ernst, curious.

“I’m making you a sketch.” Ernst holds his gaze on Hanschen’s eyebrows for a second longer before turning back to his parchment. “I can’t quite do your proportions correctly.”

“My _proportions_?” He is on the verge of displaying his rather obscene play on words, but intelligently decides against it, “A sketch of me?”

“Yes. You’re… never mind, that.” He quickly dismisses the thought. _You’re very handsome_ , Ernst wants to say, but he takes it back before it ever leaves him, deeming it inappropriate for someone helping him out on his Latin homework.

“Can I see?”

“No, not yet. You have to wait.”

“You are a tease, Ernst Robel. Do you do this to everyone you draw?” Ernst flushes.

“I… truly, I haven’t drawn anyone I am on speaking terms with. The rest are all passerbies.”

Ernst finishes the sketch in little time, perfecting it while making it seem like he weren’t making such an effort. He’s inclined to impress Hanschen, as if he doesn’t know Hanschen has incredibly primary standards when it comes to Ernst. He lets Hanschen see it, not saying a word and gently placing the parchment in his hands. Ernst’s hands were shaking, in anticipation and pride.

“It’s… wonderful.”

“I’d agree, but I'm the one who made it.” Ernst only wants Hanschen to see himself in a different light.

Hanschen stares at a picture of himself that doesn’t look quite like. If Hanschen were a passerby, the bystander he claimed he was, would Ernst have sketched him so beautifully? The eyes were bright, and spoke of a man of action—who was passionate, and from the way his lips were drawn, a good kisser. This isn’t so much of a portrait of a coward, who ran from his problems and concealed it with a face of indifference. There is an attention to detail that Hanschen shall well respect, and an expression on his face that suggested serenity and innocence.

“I’d like to keep it. If you’ll allow me.”

“Of course, it's what I had intended to be for you, silly.”

* * *

 

ii.

“I didn’t know you can play.” Ernst says over the mellow melody, taking in how… _unique_ , it all sounds.

Hanschen’s fingers trace at the smooth surface of the keys, heart pacing faster than he’s ever willed enduring. He fumbles around the songs that he memorized from his early days, sessions of sweating over limber music and shrill, pleasing tones of the harpsichord. He starts with a few notes, testing the waters. He begins Chopin’s Nocturne, not that the title came fully to him as he’s solely working off of muscle memory.

 “I can’t. Well, it’s been a rather long time since I have.” He misses a note, cringing and whipping his head to meet Ernst’s eyes. “Sorry. It’s not the prettiest of sounds.”

“I rather like it. It’s different.” He seems genuine and honest, which adds more to Hanschen’s ever decreasing confidence.

“I thought so, too. It’s not meant to play for the harpsichord, this song.”

“I feel surprised that you’d be the type of person to experiment.”

“ _Really_?”

“Hanschen.” Ernst warns, playfully smacking the other on the shoulder. “What I had truly meant, was in regards to… respecting the composer’s intentions, however you may say it.”

“Oh, but isn’t that the joy of it all? Frédéric Chopin isn’t here; he’s far, far below us. His phantom cannot take his bones to the reins of corporeality and disturb _me_ overground, that is. If anything, he’s forced to listen in on the scandal taking place before us—a bastardization of his precious art. It makes me feel… imperious. Almost too powerful, to go against this artist’s wishes without changing a single note.” He misses a note again. “Or most notes.”

The once timid boy relaxes more in his seat (which provided little to no space for them both, so they are literally joined at the hip) and smiles, anodyne, at Hanschen’s choice of words. He’s not naïve, nor is he simple—he may be totally acquiescent but only up until his own accords. He likes to be encouraging, however. “You’re just creative.”

Hanschen scoffs, kidding, “That should not be a term at all,” he grins, beginning another bar, and further plays the role of a grandiloquent student who plays all but Chopin on a harpsichord. “That’s not creative.”

“How eccentric,” Ernst corrects himself, “Unorthodox,” he supplies once more, “Would you rather, radical?”

Hanschen bites his tongue, reminded too much of Melchior Gabor. It’s as if to prod on old wounds, and all that. He winces, “ _That_ word I’m not very partial to. Be more subjective.”

“It’s heretical.” He pulls this one out from his Catechisms and Catholic lectures, a word that should have suggested outrageous malpractice. But here, in the little cozy place they’ve created for themselves and their ministrations, they wear it like a badge. Hanschen seems to like it—certainly a step up from radical.

“Now, _that’s_ creative.” He finishes the song with a lingering note. “Are you heretical, Ernst Robel?”

“Oh, in every way, with the exception of almost being ordained an altar server.” He sighs. He thinks of liberating himself from the lifelong aspiration. It doesn’t seem relevant now, to Ernst—or maybe Ernst isn’t relevant to the works of God at this incredibly quick pace he makes to commit every single sin he’s taught not to. He’d begotten himself a _man_ firstly, which should have stirred him from patronizing priestly duties, and now he wants to kiss one. Have thoughts he shouldn’t entertain—though he’s well past that. No, wait. Wipe at that thought. “H-how about you? I imagine you’re quite the heretic.”

“You work with the church. You tell me, Reverend Robel.” Hanschen teases. He doesn’t think he has a care in the world about the church, it surely doesn’t rule his life. Ernst begins to stammer, cheeks painted with the slightest bit of pink. Hanschen thinks of touching his nose, right there, but his hands remain on the harpsichord.

“Reverend Ro—who could have possibly told you that—“

“You said to Moritz, I assume. As Melchior had been the one to tell me.” There is a strange hold in Hanschen’s voice, words ever so slightly strained that Ernst thinks he must have imagined. Memories flash in his mind, a mess of hands, arguments and words. Two brains and bodies pitted against each other. Hanschen hated to think of it. They'd meant to be equals, really, but there was the looming threat of exploding and, to be put crassly, fucking themselves over. Melchior isn't the most sly boy in school. He tends to rock the boat. Ernst is different, in all ways. They're still each other's equal, Ernst never being as gullible as he may seem on the outside, though he's still inexperienced. And, unlike Melchior, he understands that not all times should you find a way to act out impulsively and take out your frustrations on anyone involved. _Nor does he ever demean you,_ Hanschen cools down at the thought.

“Of course,”

“You’d have to tell me about it, some time.”

“Of course.” And perhaps Hanschen shall tell about his, too.

Ernst asks if Hanschen could teach him. He agrees, though mostly he wasn’t teaching Ernst how to be an efficient harpsichord player. He merely lets Ernst follow his hands, skin flush to skin, and they let their afternoons plunge into the soothing, piercing notes of the strings plucked from within. He enjoys it for a while, following Hanschen along, but he can’t help but feel a little insecure from the way his stiff hands glide unnaturally, stuttering, over Hanschen’s, confident, pliable ones.

"Contrary to the piano, where the keys are pliant and easily yielded to your touch, the harpsichord requires greater pressure. You have to press harder, with a firm thrust in order to make the optimal sound." Hanschen's words echo in Ernst's head as he shuffles all the way home.

* * *

 

iii.

Ernst has never felt like this before, not to anyone, he’s never _loved_ a single soul. He’s certain, from the current state of affairs, that he may like Hanschen better than his own family, which is preposterous. God said, honor thy family. But here he is, enthralled. For a boy like Ernst, he should have broken from this entirely, from his lack of nerves, however, every waking moment with Hanschen he becomes more and more determined. He insists, he is bent on proving to himself and the world that he’s capable of harvesting love despite the rules, despite the commandments. The thought is still somehow dreadful to him. How would he live to be a maverick?

“I’m frightened, too.” Hanschen admits to Ernst one night, like those nights Ernst steals himself away from the chambers of his lonely house, his father asleep, and treks to Hanschen’s room to find his peace of mind. Hanschen’s mind is not so peaceful tonight, Ernst discerns as he’s seemingly shaken like a leaf (not very, but for Hanschen it must be as he’s never once been scared, or wary) but tries to conceal it, “Not so. I’ve only a little fright. But I worry sometimes. I thought it’s best to be transparent with you.”

“What’s troubling you?” Ernst asks carefully. “I’m here, Hansi.”

“I’d like to keep you by me.” He answers honestly.

“Of course,”

“I mean it. Terribly. I wouldn’t want to lose you. You’re…” _my life._ “A part of my life.”

“You will not lose me, I won’t allow it. I swear.” _You’re my world_. “What’s brought you to this thought?”

Hanschen sheds a thin layer of the calluses guarding his heart. “It’s just… we’ve been working— all night, on your Latin. And the examinations are close; we’ve all had to fear not making through it. Though, I know _you_ will. Not one soul is more deserving. But somehow I think all aspects of life like that, we are all vulnerable to being plucked out from the world, it can happen to anyone at any moment, for any reason.”

“And that will not happen to us,” Ernst reassures.

“Listen,” Hanschen sits up, gesturing towards the other picturing a scenario in mind. “Ernst, think of the future as a pail of whole milk.”

“Okay, it's a pail of whole milk.” Ernst recounts, watching as Hanschen's hands gesticulate.

“One fellow may find that it’s been spoiled, and wails. Another may churn it all together into butter, and sweat. Anyone can fall victim to its repercussions, whether they commit absurd amounts of exertion to fight against it, or they may find themselves vulnerable and weak to it, only to find the occupation very fruitless and sore to the mouth. The milk, it’s a testament we are all lining up to.”

“There’s a common ground to it, then?” Hanschen shakes his head.

“Perhaps we skim off the cream.”

“Skim off the cream?”

“Don’t you believe one can learn how?”

“Hanschen, I’m afraid I don’t follow, but I’ll try. Whatever you have in mind, I’m sure is a cure.” Ernst laughs a heavenly sound in the air. “So why are you frightened? It seems to me that we have a plan. We commit to it, and if nothing works then, we’ll only fall back on each other.”

“It’s only a theory. But you may be right.” The burden Hanschen has shouldered feels a little lighter, though he hasn’t been as honest as he’s envisioned. He loves Ernst, but now may not be the right time to admit it. Whatever he’s feeling, Ernst must feel it, too.

“Let’s skim off the cream.” Ernst whispers.

After a while, Hanschen bids his friend good night, turning over in his bed as Ernst lingers for a while. He stares at the back of his head, a certain string of words looping in his head playing over and over again like music played from bottom to the top. He decides against saying them, only waiting for Hanschen to be fully unconscious before pressing his lips to his soft, cold hands, and leaves to return home.

Hanschen has been awake the whole exchange. His heart flutters along to the curtains over the window by his bed. He’s been entrusted a gentle kiss from Ernst Robel.

**Author's Note:**

> not saying that it is but hanschen going off on chopin might be only slightly reminiscent of his little... scene, in my junk (have you prayed tonight). i just thought, wow, coming (ha) from that scene, hed definitely be the kind of person who pulls this shit  
> as usual ! yell at me on my tumblr @bimnoodles


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